The days blurred into one another, white walls and white light, orderlies drifting in and out like ghosts. At first, Jon—Karyn—had counted the minutes by the second hand of the clock outside her room. Later, she learned not to fight the monotony. The hours passed more quickly when she pretended she belonged here.
The doctor encouraged that. Each day he came with his clipboard, questions as steady and predictable as the meals.
“How do you feel this morning, Karyn?”
“What did you dream about last night?”
“Do you believe you are still Jon?”
At first she flinched at the last one, throat dry, fumbling with half-truths. But the doctor only ever smiled when she said the right answer:
“No. I know I’m Karyn now.”
It felt like lying. It probably was lying. But every time she said it, he seemed happier, and the sessions grew easier.
The letters helped too.
She hadn’t expected them. One morning Victor delivered a plain envelope, her name scrawled in a neat, motherly hand. Inside was a short note, trembling in its simplicity:
My dearest Karyn,
I know this is hard. But I believe in you. You’re stronger than you think. I will always be here when you’re ready. Come back to me.
Love, Mom.
The words burned her eyes. “Mom.” Whose mother? Jon’s, or Karyn’s? But the affection seeped through the paper regardless of which truth was real.
More letters followed—every few days, then every day. They were from both sides of the fracture in her identity.
From Karyn’s mother: long, careful reminders that she had a home waiting for her, that she was loved, that grief didn’t need to define her forever.
From Jon’s family: a shorter, cooler note from Jon’s mother, who thanked God that Karyn was recovering… but whose words dripped with unspoken weight. As though she couldn’t quite forgive the girl who had lived when her son hadn’t. She never wrote it directly, but Karyn could feel it in every stiff sentence.
And then there were the letters from Mikey.
Mikey—Jon’s little brother. Except not the way Jon remembered him. In Jon’s memories, Mikey had been nine years old: loud, clingy, always underfoot. But the boy who wrote these letters was thirteen, his handwriting confident, his voice in ink older than Jon remembered.
Hey Karyn, he’d begin, casual as though writing to a pen pal. I’m glad you’re doing better. Mom says you might be home soon. It’s been weird not having you around, but I never forgot about you. I’ll always be here for you, even if I’m just your annoying little brother-in-law. Don’t worry about the past. Just keep going.
She smiled every time. Mikey’s letters were bright, curious, filled with stories of his schoolwork, his friends, even his first crush. He told her things about the real Jon—the Jon who had lived in this world. Kind, reliable, steady. A husband.
Reading those lines was like being haunted by someone else’s ghost.
And yet… she wrote back. Every single time. Long, thoughtful letters in neat handwriting she was only beginning to recognize as her own. At first, she wasn’t sure what to say, so she mirrored his stories, thanked him for his kindness. Then she found herself waiting eagerly for each new envelope, wondering what he’d tell her next.
It made her question everything the doctor said.
If Jon had been so good, so reliable, then why did her memories paint him as something else—an anxious boy with a box and a stone, stumbling through mistakes?
Maybe the doctor was right. Maybe she had built a fantasy to cover the pain. Maybe the stone had been nothing more than a desperate wish for control.
Still, the thought clung to her: What if the stone is real? What if it’s still out there, in Jon’s room?
At night, when the letters were read and folded under her pillow, she turned toward the wall and pressed her hand against her stomach. She remembered what Mikey had written: You were seven months along. A boy. You wanted to call him Jace.
The name ached inside her. Jace. A son she’d never known, whose tiny heartbeat had once fluttered beneath her ribs.
She wept quietly the night she read that. For the first time, she didn’t know whether the tears were Jon’s or Karyn’s. The grief belonged to someone, and maybe that was enough.
When she told the doctor about it the next morning, he nodded, satisfied. “Of course you cried, Karyn. What mother wouldn’t, after such a loss? This shows you’re healing. You’re accepting what really happened.”
He seemed proud of her, like a teacher pleased with a diligent pupil. It made her uneasy, but she nodded anyway. She had learned how to give the right answers.
By the end of the week, the doctor pronounced her progress “remarkable.”
“You’re no longer rejecting your identity,” he said, his eyes warm behind his glasses. “You see yourself as Karyn. You feel her body as your own. You acknowledge your grief. This is real progress.”
Jon—Karyn—swallowed hard. “But I don’t have her memories. I don’t… I don’t remember being me.”
The doctor smiled. “That may come in time. Or it may not. Either way, you’ve taken a vital step. You know who you are. That is what matters.”
Then, almost casually, he added: “I think you’re ready to go home.”
The words knocked the air out of her. Home.
He explained the conditions—weekly phone calls, biweekly sessions, continued monitoring. If she faltered, if she relapsed into fantasy, she could be readmitted. But for now, she was free.
Free.
The thought made her knees weak.
Leaving meant clothes. Real clothes, not the shapeless cotton gowns of the ward. The nurse brought her a small suitcase of Karyn’s belongings: jeans, sweaters, shoes. Bras.
That part nearly broke her.
She sat on the edge of the bed, fumbling with the straps, nearly in tears as she tried to hook the clasp behind her back. The weight on her chest was foreign, the way the fabric hugged her curves alien and clumsy. She had to ask for help, cheeks burning with humiliation as the nurse guided her through it with patient hands.
“Don’t worry,” the woman murmured kindly. “You’ll get the hang of it.”
She wanted to scream that she shouldn’t have to get the hang of it. But instead she forced a smile.
Makeup was offered. She refused. She didn’t know how to use it, and she wasn’t ready to see another stranger in the mirror.
When the time came, they led her out through the final set of doors.
Her mother... Karyns mother was waiting.
Karyn froze. The woman looked older than she expected—lines etched deep around her eyes, shoulders slumped with years of worry. But when their gazes met, the exhaustion seemed to melt away, replaced by something raw and radiant. Relief.
“Sweetheart,” her mother whispered, stepping forward.
The lump in Karyn’s throat gave way to tears. She fell into the woman’s arms, burying her face in her shoulder. Her mother was smaller than her now, fragile almost, but the embrace was strong, trembling with love.
For the first time since the mirror, she felt safe.
Safe, and loved.
Her mother held her tight, as though afraid to let go. “You’re home, baby. You’re home.”
And for a moment—just a moment—Karyn let herself believe it.
But deep inside, the ember of doubt smoldered still.
The stone. Jon’s room. The truth.
She would find out.
But for now, she let herself hug her mother and weep, clinging to the warmth of being wanted, even if she wasn’t sure who she truly was anymore.
